


Superposition

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Case Fic, Episode: s02e16 God Johnson, F/M, Gen, Hurt Lucifer, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 10:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19083631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: "Why do you have to be the Devil? Couldn't you just be Lucifer?"





	Superposition

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work-in-progress. As such, tags are likely to change, so please heed them.

“You’re not the Devil.”

“ _I’m not the Devil_.”

“You made it all up.”

“ _I made it all up_."

* * *

The detective was crying.

The detective was crying and Lucifer had to go to her, had to find whatever it was that was making her cry and stop it. Destroy it if he had to. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even open his eyes. There were words between the tears and, as the dizziness in his head abated, he began to make them out.

“…nearly got yourself _killed_ and I—”

His hearing fuzzed out, but he heard her halting questions clearly. “Why do you have to be the Devil? Couldn’t you just be _Lucifer_?”

The haziness descended again and he clung, hard, to consciousness. He had to call out, had to apologize, had to…

It wouldn’t matter. She was hurt because of him. He’d hurt her. The _Devil_ had hurt her over and over, and he wouldn’t stop, couldn’t ever stop. As long as he was the Devil, he would cause her this wrenching pain that tore open his ribs and plucked his still beating heart from his chest.

The darkness swept up and he lost his hold, falling, twisting in the void, one thought left to him.

_What if he wasn’t the Devil?_

* * *

“You’re doing what?” Chloe was gaping at Lucifer like he’d sprouted wings.

“Just a nice little vacation, darling,” he said, settling awkwardly on the hard, narrow bed with its dull, gray sheet with hospital corners. He’d been aiming for nonchalance but clearly hadn’t managed it if the increasing tightness in her jaw was any indication.

“But you’re not—”

“Detective… Chloe, I-I think I’m the Devil.” He couldn’t bear to let his voice rise above a whisper. “That’s not… that’s not normal.” He hesitated. That wasn’t normal, right? That wasn’t…?

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he watched it as it slipped from her face. She shook herself, straightening her shoulders. “If you feel like this’ll help, then I…” She laid her hand on his knee. “I’ll support you.”

He must have looked unconvinced because she pressed a little closer and smiled. “Ok?”

“I… Ok.” Was this ok? It felt ok. It almost felt _too_ …

“We’re partners.” Her grin was still a little shaky, but it grew as she met his gaze.

“Partners,” he repeated, not entirely believing her, but trying. Always trying.

* * *

The drugs were… strange. Sometimes Lucifer felt he was wading through water, stumbling through a thick and endless fog. But, at the same time, in many ways he’d never been clearer. His thoughts were calmer, more controlled, the voices quieter, his attention improved. He began, slowly, to sort through his memories, though the doctors warned him not to push too hard, that it may take years to regain a true sense of reality. Nothing really made sense before the last six years after all.

And the therapy was revelatory. Linda had been highly competent, of course, but she’d been limited by his persecution complex and all those elaborate metaphors. Now, though, it was so much easier to discuss his _real_ problems. And every time he wanted to quit, to leave, to go back to the lies and the emptiness and all those maladaptive coping mechanisms the doctors had explained to him, he’d remember the detective crying. So he’d grit his teeth and make himself deal with the hideous clothing, the subpar accommodations, the talking about his feelings in front of other people. He may not _really_ have defied God, but he could certainly be a right stubborn bastard if he put his mind to it.

And so he started the long, arduous process of healing.

* * *

“No one’s come to see me.” There was a plaintive note in Lucifer’s voice, but he didn’t have the energy to hide it. He and the detective had agreed it would be better for his recovery if she stayed away, and his family…

“Lucifer…” Linda sounded concerned. “Why are you still here?”

“Hmm?” His gaze shot back to her from where it’d wandered. He frowned. “Why, to get better, doctor, of course.”

“To get…?” She blinked. “Lucifer, you’re not sick. _Well_ …” She shook her head. “But you’re not—”

“I have schizophrenia, Linda. Among other, well…”

Her eyes widened.

He cut her off before she could speak. “I know you never diagnosed it, and I’m glad, _truly_ , because I don’t think I would have reacted well.” He remembered punching a hole in her wall and cringed. “But we don’t have to talk in metaphors anymore.”

She looked worried now. “What about your father?”

“I was just… projecting. I didn’t… I wasn’t…” He remembered something he’d discussed in group the day before. “I wanted to apologize. Your suspension… it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have…” He breathed roughly. “You have been… a wonderful friend, truly, but our relationship is… it’s not healthy.”

“Lucifer, you don’t understand—”

“I want to see you, I do, but I think it… it’s better for my recovery if you don’t come visit again.”

“But—”

“Maybe in a few months, we could… have lunch, perhaps? But right now, I… I have to go.” He got up and turned away, despite her sputtering. If he stayed, he didn’t think he’d have the strength to turn her away again. “I’m sorry, but you should know I will _always_ be grateful.” He left before she could respond, maintaining his composure only long enough to get through the doorway before he fell into the wall in the hallway, cheek pressed against the paint.

* * *

Lucifer’s sleep had been troubled, recently, but it was still miles better than it ever had been. _Before_ , he’d been lucky to get four hours a night, going days without real rest, trapped in the endless cycle of sex, drugs and general debauchery. It was a wonder he was as healthy as he was, all things considered.

His dreams were vivid, if disjointed. Fragmented scenes of a faceless man holding a belt, a dark corner to hide in, echoing with voices raised to shout, and, somehow the worst of all, the warmth and comfort of his mother as she held him to her as he cried. He clung to these moments even harder for their strange unreality, still only half as believable as the swirl of memories he knew now to be lies.

He woke from a particularly intense scene—his face pressed into the earth, the smell of burning flesh and indistinct, mindless screaming—to a familiar huffing laugh. He took a breath, willing his body to relax.

“What are you doing here?”

He sat up, opening his eyes.

It was dark, but Mazikeen’s silhouette was unmistakable. She was standing against the door scowling at him. “Linda says you think you’re crazy.” She peered at him suspiciously. “What’s your angle?”

He sighed. “No angle, Maze.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“I am _ill_.” He hadn’t intended the stridency in his voice, but she had been with him so long. Ages, even. _Ages_ … “Who am I?” he asked quietly. If _anyone_ would know…

“What are you talking about?”

He stood abruptly and she seemed to shrink under his gaze, though he pretended not to notice. “Who am I?” he demanded.

“You… you’re Lucifer.”

He shook his head. “Where was I born?”

“Born? You weren’t—”

“Don’t lie to me, Mazikeen! You’ve been feeding into my delusions for _years_.”

“I don’t need to take this from you,” she hissed. She looked at the door but hesitated, taking a deep, deliberate breath “Lucifer…”

He slumped, falling back onto the bed. “Just… go, please.”

“But—”

“If your vow, if… _any_ of that was real, then you’ll go. Just… leave me be.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she spat. And she left without another word, shutting the door hard enough it rattled in its frame, the sound causing an orderly to duck his head in, only to find Lucifer staring up at the ceiling, trying to push down the ache in his chest.

* * *

The penthouse felt… odd. Disconcerting. Filled with the trappings of the only life he recognized, and yet still somehow wrong. He was by the bookshelves, looking at what was supposedly an original manuscript of Hamlet, wondering at the discoloration of the paper and the inscription, when the elevator dinged. He put the book away, shaking his head lightly, ignoring the twinge it caused behind his eyes.

He walked back into the living space as Chloe arrived.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted, moving behind the bar, grabbing a couple of glasses, sliding around to meet her.

“Lucifer,” she chided softly. “It’s the middle of the day, I can’t—” She glanced at the glass he’d pressed into her hand, blinked, then stared at his own glass. “You drink water?”

He frowned. Surely he must have… “What else should I be drinking?” he asked, knowing the answer, but needing a moment to dispel the sudden strange pounding in his ears.

“Whiskey,” she said, sinking onto one of his couches. “Tequila, on a bad day?”

He joined her. “Actually, that’s part of why I asked you to come over. I’ve… quit.”

“You quit…?”

“The alcohol, the drugs, the-the one night stands. I…” He looked away, watching the sunlight play in the crystal of his glass. “They were the only way I had to cope for a long time, but I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

He looked up when her hand brushed his. “And what kind of person _do_ you want to be?”

“The-the kind you could maybe…?” He cleared his throat awkwardly, but leaned forward to press closer to her. “Det… _Chloe_ , I have failed you… so many times, and it would be entirely fair if you didn’t want to, but… if you did?”

Emotions flickered across her face faster than he could decipher, but he would stay there in that moment for as long as she wished. Eventually she breathed in sharply, pulling back. “Candy.”

It wasn’t really a question, but he stumbled over his words in answer anyway. “I-I believed that my fa… that _God_ had created you, created your feelings for me. Maybe even… created _my_ feelings for you.” He hadn’t told that to the therapists, hadn’t even admitted it to himself, but there it was, finally, in plain words.

Tears gathered in her lashes as she watched him.

He made himself continue. “But I know, now, that none of that was real. I was afraid, and so I pushed you away.”

She still looked skeptical.

He bit his lip. “I went to Vegas, brooded…” He tried a smile but if anything her face grew even stonier. He shook his head. “When I met Candace, she was in a bad way. We made a deal. I’d clear up her debts, and in exchange she’d—”

“Marry you,” she said flatly.

“Only to determine whether my mother was…” He frowned. “More delusions, I don’t—”

“And to push me away.”

He stared at his hands, twisting anxiously in his lap. “I-I thought it would give you your choice back. But I… We… The marriage was never consummated. It was all a trick, but we had to actually get married because—”

“—you don’t lie,” she finished softly

He frowned. “Only to myself, it appears.”

She was leaning forward again and he met her eyes, feeling himself drawn to her, to the blinding light of her acceptance. “If we do this,” she whispered, steely gaze holding his. “You can’t run away without saying anything. You can’t deflect all the time. You-you have to _communicate_ , ok?”

“You would still…?” He couldn’t help the weakness in his voice. “Even knowing...?” He gestured at himself.

“The only thing that’s changed is that you’re getting better help now, right?”

He nodded uncertainly.

“But I need you to promise me that you’ll _try_ to talk, ok?”

“I… I promise.” He may not be the Devil, but he was still a man of his word.

She smiled softly. “Ok, then. Let’s… try.”

And she offered him her hand.


End file.
